the silent night will shatter
by onlywordsnow
Summary: his hand shakes, makes a fist like a habit


**the silent night will shatter (one too many mornings, bob dylan); harvey/donna ; pg-13 (maybe r); 4,005 words;**

**his hand shakes, makes a fist like a habit **

**a/n: i don't even know what this is it just kind of happened**

* * *

_October 17th, 2012; 11:29pm EST_

Traffic was backed up about 2 and a half miles away; he just couldn't wait. He could be sitting there all night just to move an inch and he just doesn't have that kind of time. His feet carry him as fast as he can go, faster than he's ran in years despite his daily (unless he's really just not in the mood for it) runs in the park. He's out of breath, the oxygen left him probably about a mile back and his gray suit feels tight on his skin.

The bottoms of his shoes collide with the cheap linoleum in the entrance of the emergency room, his hairline dusted with sweat that's tracing through his sideburns simultaneously. His lips part as he tries to force himself to breathe in and out but his blood is rushing through his veins so quickly, the adrenaline is making him shake. He snaps his hand at his wrist in an attempt to flick the nerves away but his shoulders still vibrate beneath his clothes.

His eyes flit around the room, his fingers tightening into a fist in an attempt to maintain his composure. He's Harvey Specter, after all - always calm and collected in a way that he's really a loose cannon on all fronts; when he swallows the thick film of saliva at the base of his throat it burns, aches as it jumps over his Adam's Apple and proceeds down his esophagus. The burn fades but the ache in his stomach intensifies when it collides with the empty pits of it.

His eyes well as his thoughts manage to catch up, his bottom lip trembling as he reaches a shaky hand out to someone in scrubs passing by. He tries to say something, anything that comes to mind, but he can't. Even though this woman in green scrubs with brunette colored hair is looking at him expectantly, eyes even borderline annoyed, he can't find the words. He swallows the lump, his mouth hanging open and his hand shaking in the space between them.

"Do you need some help with something, sir?" The woman asks sharply.

"My," he trails off or stutters, he isn't completely sure, "my friend was brought in about 45 minutes ago. She's about five seven, thin, red hair."

"Name?"

"Donna. Donna Paulsen," he says breathily. His chest tightens and his shaky hands tug on the lapels of his suit jacket to keep busy. He tries to button the top button first but ultimately gives up when his hands won't steady long enough. He releases a breath, his eyes glazing over as he lightly shakes his head. "I received a phone call. I'm her emergency contact."

He sucks in a breath and involuntarily holds it in as his hand shakes near his thigh, knuckles brushing over his _Tom Ford_suit. He can't stand still. He absently taps the toe of his shoe against the floor. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth; time feels like it's moving so slowly for him, like it's stopped. He wants it to make sense.

"Who are you?" She inquires.

He puffs, "Harvey Specter. I need to see her. Where is she?"

She sighs in defeat, "if you just have a seat, Mister Specter, I'll see what I can find out for you."

He resigns, drops into a seat in defeat and waits for someone to tell him what the hell is going on.

* * *

_October 18th, 2012; 4:58am EST_

He's jarred awake when a hand touches his shoulder and shakes him. He yawns involuntarily as he pushes himself upright in the seat beside Donna's bed, eyes shooting upward to place who the intruder is. His eyes seemingly glaze over at the sight of Donna's mother but he thinks that if it boils down to it he'll be able to serve up some excuse of lethargy or surprise, but he knows Donna's parents well enough to know that they won't judge him - probably won't even mention it.

"Hey," he says tiredly, half of the word catching in his throat.

Carla Paulsen offers him a watery yet tight smile, "have you been here all night?"

"Since they called me," he admits. His suit jacket is draped over the back of the chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his cheek has an indention of his knuckles where he was resting his head. He scrubs at his face as Donna's mother reaches out for his other hand. "I didn't have your number so I had to wait until they found Donna's phone to get it."

"I'm glad someone was here," she offers with a nod.

Harvey sighs and lightly shakes his head, "they wouldn't really tell me anything because I'm not technically family. They only let me stay in here with her because I raised hell but even then they wouldn't tell me more than what's obvious. Where's her dad?"

"He's parking the car."

He checks his watch, figures that he should probably be leaving but he can't bring himself to even move out of the chair. His hands are still shaking, fingertips vibrating against surfaces; he thinks that he tapped out a rhythm against his thighs until he fell asleep, or at least until he couldn't remember anymore. He releases a breath that he doesn't know he's holding when Carla lets go of his hand, his eyes immediately lifting to hers pleadingly.

His tongue slides over his bottom lip, "can you find something out?"

"Sure, honey, you just wait right here," she answers; he can see it in her eyes that she's going to be a few minutes, that after actually catching sight of her daughter that she needs to go cry somewhere.

He swallows thickly, the tension in his neck flaring when there's a sting at the back of his throat as he waits until he's alone. Well, he isn't technically alone. Donna is there, but at the same time she isn't. He reminds himself that she's just sleeping; he still feels alone.

* * *

_October 23, 2012; 12:11pm EST_

His feet tap against the dirt ridden floor, scuffing the toes of his shoes along the tile of the hospital in an attempt to drag out the time. He can't help feeling queasy surrounded by the egg white colored walls, the stale air of disease and sickness and pain engulfing his body. His skin hasn't been able to breathe in 6 days and he only goes to work when he has to; a verbal coaxing is usually required and Jessica typically has to threaten that _if he wants to keep his job then he'll get his ass into the office and make an appearance_.

He sneaks out the first chance he gets because he can't sit at his desk without staring at her empty area, the way her chair sits just the way that she left it that Wednesday night. He has no idea where she was going, can only speculate, but he's afraid to find out. Her mother sent him to Donna's apartment to get her phone charger just so they didn't miss anything important; he complied because what else can he do? The most importantly intricate detail of his life isn't working anymore.

He can literally count the days on his fingers and he's already a mess - his hair is uncharacteristically disheveled and long, his facial hair is patchy and growing in thick, he can't get the dimple in his tie centered correctly. He can't even look at himself in the mirror. It doesn't really matter when he does though because the person looking back at him isn't someone he recognizes.

The heels of his feet try to stick to the floor as he lingers just outside her door, unable to go in but not sure that he's able to stay away. It's only been 6 days and he can't remember what her smile looks like or the way her laugh sounds, the way she tilts her head when she smirks at him from across the room. She at least looks peaceful when she's sleeping. He quickly reminds himself that she isn't sleeping.

He swallows (it still hurts) and pushes the door open, relieved to see that Carla is still there and reading her book. Their eyes meet and she offers him a tight smile. He wishes that he could return it but he can't.

"Harvey," Carla greets, "I thought I told you not to come back."

"Well, you know me, I don't do anything that I don't want to do," he counters. His words are sharper than he intends but he can't bring himself to apologize, not when Donna's scrapes are turning into scars and she can't even open her eyes. He drags his fingers along his jaw line, tangling the hair that has already grown, and lets his eyes flit over the redhead in the hospital bed. "Besides, I thought you could use some lunch. Is Oscar around?"

"He's at Debbie's. He had some work to get done."

He swallows, drops his hands to his sides and balls them into fists. It's quickly becoming a habit to relinquish the shaking but the vibrations still echo in his elbows. He stands still, alert, at the foot of Donna's bed. His gaze is locked on his secretary. He's forgotten how to function without her.

He hates Jessica for telling him to think about what his life would be like without Donna.

* * *

_October 28th, 2012; 9:32pm EST_

His heart has taken permanent residence in his throat, the sound of his own breathing barely a faint echo in his ears anymore. Some days he thinks that he wishes he were dead anyway but then he wouldn't be there if she wakes up. These are things he thinks, things that he never says.

He's sitting beside her bed again, a nightly routine that he refuses to budge on. _If_he ever leaves to head to the office, he comes back as often as his day will allow it. Three of his suits are stored in the closet of her room and when he does put one on, something is always missing - whether it be a button missed, his tie too loose, his face too ragged, his sanity forgotten. He keeps forgetting to shave. It's low on the priority list.

He checks her pulse because he can't see her chest rising and falling with each breath, his fingertips shaking against her skin. When he locates her pulse, the hard thump against the pads of fingers, he releases a sigh of relief but doesn't lean back in his seat. He stays leaning forward to diminish the amount of space between. His fingers smooth against her skin, making small circles as the warmth of her flesh radiates against his touch.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as his hand trails down to hers, turning her palm over so he can entwine their fingers. Her hand is limp in his. His smile quickly fades, any traces that it might have existed gone. Her fingers are soft, her hand small in his. His hands linger on her; it's the first time he's touched her in 11 days. He pretends not to notice the way her nail polish is chipping off. That would really bother her.

These moments are his. No one interrupts them aside from the routine of nurses coming to check the unwavering vitals every night. He has it down by now. The first check 11:30, second is 2:15, third is 5:45; he always wakes up, listens intently to anything they may say to find out if there's any changes.

There never is.

He bends his arm at the elbow, lifting her hand up in the air. The fingers of his other hand trail up and down her arm, tickling her flesh so she returns goose bumps. He thinks it's a good sign, the way the pads of his fingers trail over the bumps along her skin. He isn't a doctor, but he thinks it's probably a good thing. He takes it that way anyway.

He presses the back of her hand against his cheek, his lips mere inches away from her skin. His warm breath skates over her skin. His heart lurches at the lack of a reaction. He pushes his finger into his eye, poking at his tear duct in an attempt to wipe away tears that haven't fallen yet. In the morning, Carla and Oscar come by to make him go to work. They tell him that they're going back home on Wednesday. He hates them.

He hates everyone.

* * *

_October 31, 2012; 3:17pm EST_

He mostly does all of his work from beside her hospital bed, talks to himself like he would when they're in the office because he knows she's listening in on the intercom. He makes Mike commute back and forth from the office, pretends not to hear Mike grumble when he leaves because _this isn't what he signed up for_. The kid doesn't get it. No one gets it.

He doesn't offer fake smiles just for show, makes Mike look him in the dark and hardened eyes as he tells him in hushed tones not to fuck with him. Mike's lips part, no choice but to agree. The only time he's smiling, he's close to tears with the feel of her skin beneath his fingers and begging a God that he doesn't believe in to let her smile back at him.

He sends Mike on a long journey that means he won't be back until late in the evening. He takes the opportunity to lean forward in his chair, fingertips still vibrating because nothing feels right anyway. He doesn't even bother to button his shirt all the way, his hair is a mess because he can't keep the nervous tick of dragging his hands through it from occurring.

He touches his fingertips to hers, leaning heavily on the bed beside her arm, "you know, if you don't wake up you're going to miss Halloween."

He waits a lifetime for her eyes to open and for her to be refreshed but it never comes. He checks his watch again. Mike should be back soon. He feels like life should have stopped without her; he doesn't see a point without her anyway. He hates everything.

* * *

_November 5th, 2012; 9:38am EST_

His fingers twitch around hers and it wakes him up. At first he thinks the involuntary movement is from her but when he blinks a few times he realizes that it wasn't really her at all. His brain is playing tricks on him. He swallows but it's empty, his stomach is empty, his brain is empty. He straightens in his chair, squeezing her hand before he retracts his own back to his lap.

He hears heels against the tile in the distance and he groans before Jessica can even make it all the way into the room; she offers him a tight smile, "good morning, sleeping beauty."

"Hey," he grumbles; he takes the proffered Styrofoam cup of coffee.

He takes a drink, the scalding hot burning his throat but he doesn't even care. Jessica sits on the couch at the end of the bed, immediately throwing one leg over the other. He braces himself for her speech, knowing that it will be long and full of judgment because she doesn't get it. He sets his cup on table beside Donna's bed; he puts his head in his hands and thinks it isn't fair that all of these conversations take place around Donna that she doesn't get to be part of.

"You look like shit," Jessica muses.

"Yeah, well," Harvey shrugs, "I feel like shit."

"I know you care about her, Harvey-"

He laughs bitterly, "what gave it away?"

Jessica's eyes harden and she leans forward, elbow to knee as she looks him with refusal to back down; "it's Monday morning and you've barely been to work in two weeks. That isn't like you."

"Well, I'm sorry that I didn't think the bullshit work was as important as Donna not waking up," he snarls. He laughs because he can't help it, his fingertips naturally tapping against his thighs and making a clicking noise against his well-worn by now khaki pants. His jaw tightens and he attempts to clear his throat. "I know I'm a self-serving asshole but come on, this is Donna."

Without realizing it, his fingers find the ends of her hair to absently play with.

"Do you think she would want you to be in here twenty-four hours a day, making Mike bring you paperwork that's only half done? Do you think she'd want this for you?"

"Why are you speaking in past tense?" He asks, voice filled with desperation. His fingers return to his thigh, tapping out a song of innocence as though it's his saving grace. He narrows his gaze at his boss, "this is happening, right now. This is happening. What if she wakes up and I'm not here?"

Jessica sighs and pushes herself to her feet, gathering up her coat and purse, "you might want to consider how you feel about her, Harvey. But either way, you need to realize that you have a life to live and she wouldn't want to see you like this."

He pushes himself to his feet, flattens his palm against Donna's forehead. He squeezes his other hand into a fist as he leans down, tears threatening to slip at of his eyes. He swallows to keep them down; he doesn't feel right. He just needs her to wake up.

He leans down and presses his lips against her cheek - this isn't the way it's supposed to be. He shakes his head, collapses back into the chair with exhaustion. His body racks as a sob escapes him; fuck the world.

* * *

_November 9th, 2012; 9:28pm EST_

He goes into a bar for a drink, taking Jessica's advice and attempting to stay away from the hospital for at least one night. He orders a scotch, maybe two, he can't really remember. He downs the first one, sips on the second. He doesn't know how much time has passed but he's counting down the hours until he meets his allotted goal so he can go back to the hospital and sit beside her.

He's startled when fingertips lightly touch his arm, his sullen eyes finding the frame of the perpetrator when he really couldn't care less. His gaze narrows at her when she smiles, not amused by her antics. She's clearly looking for something that he isn't but he's had just enough alcohol that he'll probably go for it just for the sake of going for it.

He stops paying attention, can't piece together what's going on.

His fingertips splay against surfaces, skin, smooth and rounded edges that just don't feel right beneath his touch. His eyes often water at the realization that this isn't what he wants, the way his hands linger in places that they don't belong. The body pressed against his belongs to a stranger, a woman with dirty blonde hair who laughs like an idiot. Her mouth tasted like a frilly drink and her laugh echoed in his ears in a bad way.

The only way to shut her up was to kiss her. She didn't get it, didn't get that he didn't want to talk, didn't get that he wanted to stop breathing. Her lipstick smears and he wonders if she's just cheap or stupid but figures that he needs this - to move or something.

His hand trembles against her thigh, taps against skin and makes a faint slapping noise. His facial hair burns her face, rough and prickly because his days of caring enough to shave are few and far between. His wrists press into her legs as his hands shake, balling into fists like a bad habit. She probably thinks he's a junkie; he's lost his goddamn mind.

Her teeth sink into his bottom lip and he briefly wonders what her name is before remembering that he really doesn't fucking care. His hands find her hair and he remembers that it isn't her, it isn't the one person that his heart is aching without. _No,_ he thinks, _this isn't right_. He swallows, angrily pushes his thumb into the woman's jaw to part their lips.

She stares at him in confusion, her eyes tracing his for some kind of answers that she'll never find because he isn't that easy to read. He pushes her away, puts space between them. That doesn't help his ability to breathe. His chest is still tightening. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, his whole body shaking with disgust.

Stories that he'll never tell hums in his throat, vibrating the nodes beneath his skin like even he is missing the point - "I have to go."

His feet move across the floor and he pushes the door open with so much force that for a moment he thinks it's going to literally fly off of the hinges. For a moment, he considers hailing a cab or calling Ray (and then he almost hears her joke about a transporter beam in the back of his mind) but he can't stop running. His legs carry him as fast as he can go all the way to the hospital. Sweat drenches his shirt, his breath is ragged from the cold air, and his feet echo throughout the halls of the hospital until he gets to the elevator.

He pushes the button hard, willing it to get there. He steps off, walks quickly until he reaches her room. He doesn't know what he thinks is on the other side but he hesitates. He ditches his coat and tosses it onto the couch, various articles following. He kicks off his shoes, releases a shaky breath, and crawls onto the bed with her.

She's warmer than him, his fingers touch her hair on their own accord. He feels the tears prick the corners of his eyes. He breathes her in, drops his chin to her shoulder. He thinks he whispers that he loves her before he falls asleep but he can't remember.

He hates himself.

* * *

_November 14, 2012; 5:32am EST_

For days he's been falling asleep in the bed beside her, waking up to there being no change. The nurses have eased up on him a bit, telling him more now that there isn't really much to tell. He swallows and it still burns. His hands still shake, ball into fists.

His eyes flutter open, his body fighting the instinct to roll over because he knows in the back of his mind that he'll hit the floor. There's an unfamiliar feeling on his forehead and he blinks a few times before his vision clears. His mouth tugs upwards into a smile when she looks back at him; a tear slides out of his eye as he closes the distance between them and presses his lips to hers.

She doesn't really respond at first, but her hand tightens on his wrist. He wonders if she's forgotten how to speak, how to kiss, but he really can't stop himself. Not after 4 weeks of waiting for the moment that she's looking back at him. He pulls back, relieved when he sees her smiling.

"Hi," he says, barely above a whisper.

He sees her swallow, "hi."

"I missed you," he admits, "I've been a mess without you."

"I can tell," she agrees, her fingers finding his chin and sliding over the hair on his face.

He swallows, silently waiting for her to give him some kind of indication of what's going on but then he remembers that maybe she doesn't know. He threads his fingers with hers, sliding his leg between hers as he attempts to bend his knee. His eyes drift closed again; he's probably only dreaming.

"Harvey," she says gently.

His eyes snap open; _this is real, this is right_.


End file.
